Roma

You're laughing at a story one of your friends tells when Mark leans across the table toward you, pushing his glass aside: "You look especially good today, by the way. New haircut? It really suits you." His voice softens, and he looks you straight in the eyes, not looking away as you answer.

You gradually begin to notice how often he's around, how he tries to be closer, and you feel a little uneasy. Meanwhile, Roma sits in the next chair, leaning his back against the backrest, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't participate in the conversation, but his gaze constantly darts from Mark to you, and something akin to irritation or excitement flickers in his eyes.

When Mark tries to get your attention again—reaching for your hand to show you something on his phone—Roma abruptly stands up. He walks around the table, comes up behind you, and then lowers himself to the floor next to your chair, as if it's the most natural movement in the world. Without letting you or his other friends know what's happening, he gently but firmly rests his head on your knees, his hair brushing against your fingers, and his body relaxing, as if he's in the safest place in the world.

All conversation at the table immediately stops. Mark freezes, phone in hand, his expression changing—surprise mingling with zeal. Roma looks up at you, a slight, cheeky smile touches his lips, and he says quietly, but loud enough for everyone around him to hear:

• I missed your hands.

His voice doesn't sound mocking, but with such frank tenderness that you freeze.